s n a p s h o t s   1 1 3

June 23, 2005


his poem
his snapshot
came to him
early morning
lying in bed
all inspired
but when
he rushed
he dropped it
and it broke
crazed shattered
into tiny pieces
settled into
a fine dust
on his finely
polished lino
sadly all he
could do was
sweep it up
and sigh.

pmcmanus early


Stolen Snap

After months reconnecting with Greece,
the unspoiled parts, my friend is back in Barkers Creek.

OWe were walking from the sea into the hills
past an isolated house, a donkey outside,
two men on the porch. We passed through their gate,
asking how to find our way. They made us sit with them.

The younger, talkative one, must have been 70,
went to the kitchen, returning with salted cucumber,
bread, homemade goat¹s cheese, spirits also homemade.

Eight children between them these brothers had had,
we stayed unclear about the fate of their wives.
We said our thanks and farewells; the younger brother
led us on to the road, pointing out the uphill donkey path.

Steep and rocky, it took us high above their house
past ancient stone walls by fragrant wild herbs.
One of the brothers could still be seen checking
how we climbed, till at last we disappeared
into the blessed stillness and warmth.

Another time, in Kardamili, south of Kalamata,
a lovely village by the sea - great walking country -
hills, gorges, lost villages - behind,
we got to know an English couple
(he the Greek born writer, Alexis ... )
who shared some terrific long walks.

One night the four of us, invited
to a fine family Greek dinner, relishing
our sense of connecting with tradition,
found ourselves viewing the Eurovision song contest,
yet another famous victory for Greece.

Our next stop was Ithaca where much rain fell.
I began my own Eurovision song,
entitled "It's raining in Ithaki"
(rhymes handily with souvlaki)
- yes I know, a sure winner...¹

Max Richards, Melbourne, 22 June 2005


A group of workers hammering this morning
An ensemble of percussionists
I count three

Pacing themselves
it is hard to discern where
A roof, replacing siding or

The skin of a deck
Pacing themselves
like runners do

Aware of time left
distance to go
There is a rhythm

Though no melody
Unless you add the swoosh
Of the cars

People on the way to work
The echoes in this room
rain yet to fall

Now a swollen pall
muffling each blow
of the padded mallet

no arpeggios
no bravado
just cleaving of pine

wood and steel
wedded to this
concerto grosso

Peter Ciccariello
Providence, RI, USA
22 June 2005


Arrested by the pleasures

Of being singular and alone ­

Not particularly:

On a desert mountain she writes her novel


And sees no one. The feather quick hit ­

Fingers to the keyboard ­ is small provision:

An inhabitation in letters

Is variously good but this is not a lecture.

The day¹s sun trowels my shoulders.

At night I dream my late father has now

Fully evacuated the house, each room

A dark emptiness, a vacant breeze, the doors

Squeak among loose hinges. As the sun rises,

The floorboards, already ripped away from crossbeams

The earth below, a rich, dark brown, loose loam,

Fit to give over, fresh for planting.

Stephen Vincent
Blog: http://stephenvincent.durationpress.com


Emergent Properties

So, if it is only atoms and the void,
where are we?
In the void, of course.
Floating atoms,
wading in the void,
not to be discovered,
not to be honored,
to float away,
to other atoms,
lost in the huge void
that we do not embrace,
do not see,
but arrive in,
limited, unprotected,
yet vain, impoverished,
and rich in self
that like the atom is singular and alone.

Harriet Zinnes



This Poem

surf side bar and cafe -
the imminent return
last night's jalapeños
and again
in this poem

deborah russell
fort collins colorado
june 22, 05
2:15 pm - mountain time


Warning Signs

gourmet snails
eat the chilli plant
the flowering bush
is a handful of sticks
someone has put their butts
in the geranium's pot

today I bought
Jill's the book of
for 50 cents
of more delight than
John's Peripheral Light
(Harold left out the best of .)

I sneeze and wheeze
through coffee
with my exwife
and go through
market shops with her
like back when .
only now its
her money -

at night between sets
at Wimbleton
I read Winton and Genette-
forty / fifteen.
Tim comes up to the net
Gerard stays back of court ...

Talking Heads are
live in concert
on the stained speakers
'warning sign of things to come -
turn me over, turn me over'
I go to bed
and dream of fucking
my ex-wife in red knickers
'warning sign, warning sign -
look at my hair -
like the design?'

the kite of all my days
flies a tattered tail .
I'm holding on
holding on
snails at the chilli
Talking Heads silent

Andrew Burke
Mt Lawley
23 June 2005


stories under sheets
like a slow cure
noise hitting walls
from outside windows
crows and other chatter

pills and potions interrupt
the longing
characters as if you knew
as well that age of
folk songs and fairy lights
the endless afterwards
in which childhood ends

or when a telephone
was really a telephone
hardly ever ringing
and no-one told the truth
they didn't know

and I could be blamed
for all this

Jill Jones
23 June 2005, Marrickville




Borrow them if they fit, if the odor
doesn't gross you out.

I cried because I had no shoes
until I met someone with a stolen name.

When I got the shoes at last
they stank less.


Be who you want to be.
Say you are me.

Pay my bills for a month,
walk my dog, feed my cats.

If you can find a credit card
with my name on it,

I'll be real surprised because
they're all cancelled.

Who steals my purse steals trash.
No shit.


Come here, where I work, do my job.
Make sure the window is sealed.
You might want to jump out.

Become indeterminate.
If transgender is your bag
go for it: stretch
my identity wherever you like
while I do my best imitation
of Chauncey Gardener
because I Like To Watch.

After all, I always wanted
to become Teiresias and
have it both ways.

If you're a woman make sure
you wear one of those bras
they give to mezzos who play men
at the opera.

If you're a man, make sure
you're wearing a strap-on
to augment the gifts of nature.
Paper towels down his pants
were good enough for Jagger,
but he offset this magnified lying
by being a rock star
where bullshit is expected.

But you're not.

Kenneth Wolman /6-23-05


a big moon lolls over the horizon,
vibrant as gyroscopes,
poised as wire athletes,
affronting a gauze dark;
and flashy

a cat moves away, streaking,
the sky white dashing its fur with gleams

mica star glints roof tenuously

a dog stands on some ground,
hesitantly looking about for other beings

the light can surely see us

and there is a hum

but all one hears
is the sea
upon nearby rockiness
and gulls, which chorus
through unsteady nights

Lawrence Upton


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